Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

After going to bed at 830pm I had half expected to wake up early, but when I hear Sean coming back in from the bathroom, and ask him the time, 130am doesn’t really sound so good. Not particularly when my heart was pounding through my chest at an alarming speed. I decided that it was probably best to get up and get some fresh in air in the hope that some more oxygen might calm it down. But all that greets me on the other side is darkness and the cold.

In fits and starts, I spend the night alternating my broken sleep with walks outside, paracetamol and water, and music on my iPod. Finally, after three scary awakenings, it is morning and breakfast is being served. It is not much – just some stale bread, jam, coffee, tea and a flask of lukewarm water – but it is enough to get us all going for the day.

But obviously our driver Jesus has other ideas, and seems very content to be locked up in the warmth of the family’s kitchen, forgetting almost completely about us. We wait patiently for him, trying not to shiver in the cold, realising that this is actually his family. Our car is then loaded up with him, our stuff, empty bottles, his cousin and everything but the kitchen sink, and we finally head off - the last to leave from our ‘resting’ place.

Our first stop is Arbol de Piedra - strange rock formations formed in the sand by volcanic eruptions. I ask Jesus when we will get to the hotel at the Salt Flats and he says six o’clock, but I can’t understand why when it is only 150km away. But when smoke starts appearing in the front passenger seat and we all have to get out while Jesus and his cousin fiddle under the 4WD, it starts to make sense. Luckily two other tour groups are behind us, on the same route, and they stop to keep us company.

I instantly recognise the English couple from my hostel and I chat to them about the quality of their experience so far (they did the smart thing and checked the tourist office’s comments book before booking). But it is much the same story - no sleep, no real guidance from their tour person, and plain pasta and soup for dinner. I guess it is all a pretty hit and miss experience.

It’s an even rockier ride to the next Laguna Onda, where more bashing of the vehicles’ underneath goes on. Desert mechanics seems to only have two fixes: either that, or pouring water on it, and it is not long before Jesus has stopped again to blow up the tyre by hand. Oh brother!

The next few lagoons, Laguna Heidonda and Laguna Chiarcota, pass by much like the others, our fatigue for them has already arrived, so that when we get to Laguna Cañapa we are all glad to have lunch as a distraction. Getting back on our trail, and car trouble plagues us again, this time the brakes don’t seem to be working and when our tyre gets stuck going uphill, we end up sliding backwards into a rock edge. From his seat in the back, Sean says we were lucky it didn’t roll.

Thankfully though, it’s nothing serious, but it is not too long before the back wheel needs to be changed completely, and the ‘road less travelled’ tactics of our 19 year old driver start to wear thin. It becomes a running joke with the other groups we bump into, with each meeting requiring a list of our new problems.

Frankly I have no idea how Jesus keeps track of where we are going ‘cos we just seem to drift through endless amounts of barren landscape. But our final stop in San Juan de Rosario arrives before we make the last 2 hours to our ‘hotel’ at the salt flats. In the dying light of the day, we pass by the cactus-laden hills and some sad-looking quinoa crops and I can’t help but wonder why farmers here haven’t realised that rocky soil doesn’t grow much. (Except wine of course!)

Finally the Hotel de Sal arrives with its warm insides and hot showers (although the solar-powered lights don’t go on until 7pm, and then get turned off at 9pm, with no warning). We settle down for a dinner of soup, and, well, Spam. Calling it that is perhaps even being too kind. It was totally inedible and tasted rather like cat food, so, after sharing a bottle of wine, and playing a few games of Uno, it is another early night for us - with another early rise ahead to see the sunrise over the flats.

Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.